


you’ve been around all night & that’s a little long

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheerleaders, Dirty Talk, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Relationship Reveal, Sexual Content, Sneaking Around, theon is thirsty for sansa in a short skirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: It’s not hard to figure out the reason behind Theon’s sudden vested interest in football, and yet Sansa’s the only one who knows for sure.(work + chapter titles from “mickey,” by toni basil)





	1. you’re so pretty; can’t you understand?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [truthbealiar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthbealiar/gifts).



> a/n: for @joygreys — happy ((belated, whoops)) birthday!! more to come as soon as i organize the sequences to my liking, but i hope you enjoy this multi-layered birthday cake!

It starts like this:

Theon leans in the doorway to the bathroom, where Sansa’s tying back her hair in braids. He’s all casual stance, lean muscle, curling waves of dark sandy hair, and those _eyes_ that aremade of thunderstorms and make her buzz like she’s been struck by lightning.

She catches the flick of his gaze down the silver-and-black threads of her cheerleader’s uniform. That only makes her buzz more.

He sees her catch him, too, and all he’s got to say for himself is that slow, wide grin that shoots shivers up her spine and down her shoulders and into places Theon Greyjoy’s got _no_ business being, and yet…

Well, there he is.

“Nice skirt.”

That’s it, that’s all he says. But Sansa thinks there’s a question there, too, one she can hear so clearly in Theon’s self-assured voice that he _must_ have said it aloud — _What’re the chances you’ll let me under it?_

He hasn’t said it, though. She knows that, but the way he’s looking at her makes her feel like he’s crawled into her bones with no intention of ever leaving.

But it’s only a feeling. However electric, however potent, there’s nothing she can actually say to any of it.

So she finishes up her hair and bumps her hip into his on her way out the door, a breezy “Thanks” tossed over her shoulder as she goes.

When, halfway down the hall, she chances a second glance at him, it’s to find him watching the sway of her short pleated skirt against her thighs. He gives her another grin, and a wink, too, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Sansa’s skin tingles, as if he’d dragged that smile over every inch, and left too many marks for her to forget that he’d had his wicked, smirking, _beautiful_ mouth on her.

Oh, bloody buggering —

She wants him to, doesn’t she?

* * *

The late summer night is balmy as all hell, and Robb’s been looking at him funny ever since he showed up.

“What?” Theon drawls, taking his gaze off the bright lights on the sidelines long enough to lift an eyebrow at his friend.

“Since when do you watch football?” Robb wants to know.

“Long as Snow has, I expect.”

“Ygritte’s working concessions,” Jon says from his seat on Robb’s other side. “Not that it’s your business what I’m doing here. What’s your excuse, then?”

Theon twirls an unlit cigarette between his fingers, giving the impression of boredom when he’s far from it. “None of your business, either.”

“Right, you two.” Robb rolls his eyes, too used to their incessant squabbling to really care, but too tired of it to let it go on. “Trust the pair of you to turn a question into something to piss each other off about, eh?”

“Who’s pissed?” Theon shrugs. Certainly not him, not with this view.

He lets his gaze wander back to the sidelines, where he can track the curl and bounce of Sansa’s ponytail and not be bothered by anything else.

Her legs are long streaks of moonbeams, her laugh like spring rain on the rooftops as it carries on the stifling breeze. Fingers dancing over her hair to make sure not a strand’s out of place, bright white pom-poms hanging idly from her thumbs.

He wants those legs tight around him, wants that laugh husked, all nervous anticipation, into his ear. Wants that pretty pink mouth on his neck, down his chest, wants those dainty delicate hands to tear the button from his trousers and shoved down his pants. He wants to undo those braids and tug at her hair while he fucks her from behind.

That’s all problem enough without bickering with Snow, the idiot. But Sansa’s a dose of trouble he doesn’t mind indulging in. 

It’s why he’d started coming to these games. He couldn’t give two shits about Tyrell versus Martell or anyone with half a brain to spare versus Harry Hardyng, but Sansa Stark doing a perfectly executed cartwheel in a short flouncy skirt?

Forget about it. Of fucking course he’s going to be here.

Robb’s not to know that, but… Well, it’s quite enough that Theon does.


	2. you can take me home

Highgarden House goes all night, every night there’s a game — win or lose or nobody gives a damn because their team wasn’t even playing, they just want to drink, and _drinks_ seem to be what the Tyrells were put on this planet to supply. 

Sansa’s nursing her second one, some sweet sugary thing Margaery’s made for her, though she insists the sugar is substitute, lest they need to hem their skirts and impossibly tight sweaters to accommodate so many nights of empty-calorie debauchery.

The lights are down low, bass thumping obscenely through the highest-class speaker system. There’s a slight throbbing in Sansa’s head, but it’s not entirely unpleasant.

She swirls her drink, takes another sip, and when she’s lowered her cup she catches a pair of sea-green eyes watching her from across the room.

Theon bloody Greyjoy. Will she ever be rid of him?

_As if you want to be_ , the sensible part of her scoffs. But how sensible can that be, really? Sansa only knows that it’s the side of her that won’t let her kid herself.

So not _sensible_ , perhaps, but… honest. Though that doesn’t sound much better.

Doesn’t matter. Theon’s made his way over to her before she can suss it out any further. It is what it is.

“Oi, Stark” — he jerks his chin in greeting, waggles a cigarette in her direction — “I’m going for a smoke. Come with me?”

She shouldn’t, but at the moment she can’t think why not. So, she follows him out to the back porch like she’s got any idea what she’s doing or what he’s on about.

It’s darker outside, quieter, warmer. Theon leans against the rail, lights up, and takes a drag before he nods at the cup in her hand. “What’re you drinking?”

“Dunno.” Sansa offers it. “Margaery made it.”

Theon plucks it from her hold, their fingers brushing longer than they need to. He takes a draw from it, then pulls a face. “Christ, those Tyrells aren’t fuckin’ around, are they?”

“Suppose not.” Sansa takes another sip, trying and failing to shake the notion that her lips are touching just where Theon’s had. She leans next to him, hip on the porch rail. He turns his head to look at her, grinning a little around his cigarette. “You’re not drinking?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, ashes onto his weathered boot. “Family’s got a bad track record with that shit. My own’s not much better. Try to avoid it now.”

She always knew Theon had a rough go of things, but… “I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” he says again. “Don’t be. You haven’t got to be sorry about anything, far as I’m concerned. All’s forgiven.” He gives her another once-over, flashes her another grin. “You looked too good tonight for me to hold much against you.”

“Better than I have the last half-dozen other games?” she asks, not bothering to pretend that she hasn’t noticed him coming ‘round more often lately.

To his credit, Theon doesn’t deny it, just brings the cigarette back to his lips and tells her, all sincerity, “You’re always lookin’ good, Stark.”

Sansa hums into her next drink. He chuckles. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says innocently, or so she’d have him believe. “Just that you’ll make a girl think you’re only after her for the pom-poms.”

He laughs again, fuller this time. “Trust me, Stark. I’m after you for a helluva lot more than that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The way he’s looking at her makes Sansa feel like he’s touching her already, like he’s touched her everywhere. The end of his cigarette glows bright orange between them. “I’m more partial to the splits, myself.”

Gods help her, but now he’s gone and made her laugh, too.

* * *

Theon’s not quite sure how it happens, but — his arm wraps more securely around Sansa’s waist, the better to lift her and slam her against the door of one of the Tyrells’ spare bedrooms — who is he to complain, when this is what he’d been after in the first place?

Her mouth is soft and pliant and needy beneath his. She tastes sweet and tart, like that drink she’d had him try earlier, though she’s far and away better than anything he could find at the bottom of a red solo cup.

Meanwhile he must taste like cheap cigarettes and diet Coke, but Sansa doesn’t seem to mind. Her tongue tangles with his as soon as he coaxes her lips apart, anyway, so it mustn’t be all bad. The thought that she might want him too much to care makes him groan, and press against her more insistently.

Sansa’s fingers thread through his hair while his hands trail up her thighs. He nudges his knee up to hold her in place against the door, letting her rock into it to alleviate the desperate ache in her cunt — the ache _he_ put there, because she wants _him_.

And he’s going to let her have him, so long as he gets to have her, too.

He snaps the elastic underneath her skirt, that skimpy black thing that’s meant for modesty, only it sends a pang through his cock whenever he catches a glimpse of it when Sansa flips herself through the air, or skips a little too high. So what _good_ does it do anybody, really?

“Next time,” Theon pants into her open mouth, ghosting his lips over hers as their breath mingles, hot and wild, “I want you to leave these off, so I can fuck you nice and easy with your skirt still on.”

“That’s a dress code violation,” Sansa informs him, prim and proper as ever, ‘til he sucks a mark behind her ear and gets her moaning again, high and pleading.

“So just come by mine tomorrow. Be ready for me to fuck you.” He shoves his hand into her spandex shorties. “That alright with you?”

_“Yes,”_ she whimpers as his fingers slip inside, and his thumb circles her clit.

Her skin pinks and her eyelashes flutter and she bites on her lip when she’s trying not to be too loud. Theon kisses her again to swallow the sounds instead. She tastes like want and relief and salvation; she tastes like _his_.

He makes her come like this, up against an upstairs door at a house party, hot and harried because it’s all they’ve got time for, with his hand up her skirt and his mouth wherever he wants it.

“Be a good girl for me tomorrow,” Theon murmurs into her ear as she settles, as her body calms, “and I’ll eat your pussy first.”

He’s going to go down on her regardless. He just wants to know how far he can take this.

Sansa clutches at his shirtfront, right atop his stuttering heart, as he helps her to slide down from the door. He keeps an arm around her, just to make sure she’s steady on her feet, and just because he doesn’t feel like letting go yet, and sucks the fingers of his free hand between his lips to taste her.

She watches him with bright dark eyes, restless like the sea before a storm. The scratch of her painted coral fingernails in the ribbed lines of his shirt makes him shake.

“Walk me home?” she asks, like she’s testing the waters of something Theon planned to do, anyway.

But she doesn’t know that, and he reminds himself that a girl like Sansa needs some reassurance. She’s had enough bullshit; he’s not about to give her more.

Now’s not the time to talk about it, though. He wants to get her off a round dozen times before they start to talk about what it all _means_. So instead —

“For you, sweetheart?” He tugs playfully at the hem of her skirt, and leans in to steal just one more kiss. “Anything you want.”


	3. so come on and give it to me, any way you can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i’m just posting this as each chapter gets cleaned up and ready to go, so accept my erratic update “”schedule”” and enjoy all the theonsa bang-a-lang

As soon as Sansa walks through the door to Theon’s flat, he’s got her bent over the couch, hands running over the backs of her thighs.

“Nobody’s home,” he assures her when she starts to ask. He leans over her back, mouth at her ear and hardening cock pressed against her arse. “Robb’s got class, Jon’s at work. We’ve got _hours_.”

He says it like he intends to use every one of them. The notion alone leaves Sansa weak at the knees.

Theon flips her skirt up, groans when he sees that she’s done as he told her, bare beneath it. One sharp smack to her arse, and then he runs a soothing palm over it. She doesn’t bother trying to bite back her sharp gasp of pleasure.

“Good girl,” he says approvingly. But then he’s dropping her skirt back into place and gently turning her ‘round.

She studies his face, quizzical, as he brushes the hair from her face, tucks it behind her ears. “Is something the matter?”

“Hardly.” Theon grins, that same old smile she’s come to know so well, yet there’s something _else_ that plays with the corners of his mouth now. That smile brushes her own lips when he adds, “But I did promise, didn’t I?”

Before she can ask what he means, he’s dropped to his knees, ducked his head under her pleats, and her knees really do go weak when his mouth covers her cunt.

Another surprised, delighted gasp spills from her tongue. Her hand clutches onto his hair to keep herself from collapsing completely; Theon groans into her when she pulls at it. One hand holds her at her still-buckling knee, while the other dips beneath her skirt to squeeze her thigh and palm her arse.

 _“Mmph.”_ He groans deeper when her nails scratch against his scalp, his grip tightens and his tongue flicks insistently around her clit.

He leans back, but keeps close enough that she can feel his hot bursts of breath upon her, the scrape of his stubble against her thighs when he pulls hard, smacking kisses from her skin.

“That’s so good, baby.” He licks a stripe up the crease of her leg. “ _So_ good, Sansa. Such a filthy good girl for me, aren’t you?” He sucks on her clit again, short and sweet and leaving her wanting more. “All for me, yeah? Tell me.”

“I’m yours,” she tells him, though she’s never told anyone else such a thing before. But it feels right with Theon, somehow, unexpectedly. “I’m all yours, do whatever you want with me.”

Thein glances up, all dark eyes and mussed hair. “Whatever _you_ want,” he says, rough and quiet and honest. “Nothing’s gonna get me off like making you fall apart.”

All that said, he puts his mouth back on her and does just that.

He makes her come for the second time, up against the rummage sale couch he shares with his best mates, with her fingers knotted in his hair and his playing tricks on her skin. Making her tingle, making her shake, making her want more and more, even though he keeps giving it to her as it is.

Sansa never thought she was going to get this, that anything could be like this, until Theon came along and flirted his way under her cheerleader’s skirt. 

Flirted, charmed, wooed, made her see something there that she hadn’t noticed before until he was just… _there_.

He swipes his hand over his mouth, then nuzzles into her hip before he trails kisses upwards as he stands to gather her up in his arms. He takes her mouth then, slips his tongue into her mouth so she can taste what he’s done to her.

So he can make her _his_ , Sansa thinks, but the thought doesn’t trouble her the way it would with anyone else.

Because Theon doesn’t want to hurt her, could never dream of doing it; he just _wants her_ , period, end of. He’s a wicked flirt, sometimes callous and always laughing, but he looks at her like he’s committed some grave sin and she’s forgiven him, anyway.

Maybe that’s just her romanticism talking. But then he keeps on kissing her, tender but longing, and he sighs against her lips like it’s the first time he’s drawn breath after almost drowning.

And then he chuckles, too, when he pulls back and he tells her, “You’ve got me real fucked up, Stark, you know that?”

“I could say the same to you,” she admits, because she’s never known Theon particularly well, but she knows he doesn’t hear the things he needs to often enough. The things that mean he matters to somebody.

She toys with the ends of his hair and he all but _purrs_ , a satisfied groan from deep within that makes his heart stutter beneath her fingertips.

“You’re gonna get me in a whole lot of trouble,” she whispers when he leans back in.

“Reckon it’s the other way ‘round, love,” Theon says, but he kisses her like he couldn’t give a damn whether it’s bad for him or not.

And she kisses him back like she doesn’t, either.

* * *

Theon likes to meet her underneath the bleachers.

After the games and before the parties at Highgarden, he slips in amongst the shadows, the smell of popcorn and cut grass all ‘round, where there’s nothing but the sounds of traffic on the faraway streets to disturb them.

Sansa yanks him close by the collar of his shirt, and he bunches her cheerleader’s sweater in his hands when he rolls his hips into hers. She sighs and holds him tighter. The way she clings to him makes him want to have his way with her right here on the dusty, hard-packed ground.

He never does. Not because he doesn’t want to, obviously; he wants her more than anything. There’s just several other places he could have her that won’t be near as inconvenient.

He could have had her that first day, when she’d come by his and he’d gone down on her in the lounge. But he didn’t then, either. They’d snogged on the couch and he’d fingered her again, and she’d palmed at the front of his jeans, he’d bucked up against her, ‘til they both came.

After that, he’d really just wanted to hold her.

If he’s being honest, there’s a lot he wants with Sansa. But Theon’s not going to push it. He wants to give her time to get used to the idea. He’d been half-gone on her since she was old enough for him to notice her, so he’s plenty used to it. This is the first time she’s been available since and — what with that and the short skirt and all — Theon’s pretty sure the timing must be fate.

Not that he’s about to say that shit out loud. But for now he’ll take things as they come, because they’ve been working out rather well.

These clandestine meet-ups under the stands are the best part of the otherwise pointless football matches he sits through, just to watch Sansa go fluidly through the motions of the cheer routine.

Robb doesn’t notice the direction or intensity of Theon’s gaze, which he knows to be true because if Robb _did_ know, he’d have a fair few things to say about it. Theon’s not ready for that yet, because all he’s got to say for himself right now is _‘I’m sticking my hands up your sister’s skirt every chance she’ll let me,’_ and that’s a recipe for disaster.

Jon, though… Jon might know there’s something going on. He’s always furrowing his brow like he does when he’s peeved, and he’s been casting looks Theon’s way every game. Whatever those looks mean, it’s still really bloody unnerving.

He’s not said anything but, then, Theon hasn’t given him the opportunity. Jon’ll just drone on about _responsibility_ and _honor_ like it’s the damn Dark Ages, as if Theon would ever hurt her, anyway, and frankly, he doesn’t want to fucking hear it.

The only thing he wants to hear is the way Sansa whimpers his name (and any number of broken words) into his neck when he’s got his hands in her pants and his mouth on her tits.

“That’s it,” he murmurs as he pushes her up against the criss-crossed beams, one leg slotted between hers so she can ride his thigh. “Get yourself off for me, sweetheart. Use me. Let me watch.”

“ _Mmm_ … Theon…” Her fingers curl in his hair, while her other hand scrambles at his waist, clutching at his shirt as he moves his thigh against her cunt. “Oh, that feels so — _oh_ —”

He can’t get enough of this. loves being the one who makes pretty, perfect Sansa Stark lose that carefully constructed composure. She’s so fucking hot like this, and it’s all for him.

“Yeah?” Theon huffs out a breath as his hands flex on her arse, moving her to match his rhythm. “You like that, baby? You want my cock? _Fuck_ , Sansa, tell me you want it.”

A broken moan he catches quickly in a sloppy kiss, and she’s sighing between his lips, “I want it.”

“What do you want, Sansa?” He smacks her arse, then repositions, so that it’s his still-clothed dick thrusting up between her legs now. “Say it.”

“I want your cock, Theon,” she tells him, without another moment’s hesitation once he starts suckling behind her ear. Her hips jerk up to meet his, rolling smoothly and, _gods_ , he can’t wait to fuck her.

“You’re gonna get it baby,” he promises. He lifts her up, urging her to wrap those long legs around his hips so he can have more control over making her come. “God damn it, Sansa, I love it when you talk dirty for me. I’m gonna get you to say all sorts of things for me, aren’t I?”

He’s trailing kisses along her jaw, breathing heavy as he goes, more so still when she says, “Whatever you want.”

All he wants is her.

Her hands in his hair, twisted in his shirt. Her legs around his shoulders, his waist, tensed up and waiting for release. The sweet sounds she makes, all sighs and _oh_ and _Theon_ — gods, but is there anything like worshipping Sansa and having her say your name like a prayer right back?

He wants the curve of her waist and the one that makes up her smile, too. The jut of her hip bones and the way she rolls against him. Her springtime rain laughter and her arm swung snug ‘round his lower back. He wants the way she melts, he’d bottle it up and wear it if he could. He wants to be that thing that makes her whole world light up, even if it’s just a little bit brighter, just a little more for the better, because she sets him on fire in this way that makes him feel _alive_ , and he wants to give just a little piece of that back to her, if he can.

When she comes — when he does, too, because Sansa shattering like this always makes him come, because he’s _done this_ and she wanted it from _him_ — he lays kisses all over her face, murmuring encouragements and endearments and all those things that make her come harder.

This, he thinks, is fucking _bliss_.

In the aftermath of straightening clothes, gentle touches, amd the tinge of embarrassment Sansa is prone to feeling once he’s unravelled her so, Theon tells himself that it will get easier to take her home without wanting to stay there with her.

It hasn’t yet, but… Well. Theon’s learned to take any little bit of good that he can without questioning it overmuch.

So, he slips his hand into hers and walks her out past the creaky chicken-wire gate, into the carpark where his shoddy little car’s waiting for them. His thumb keeps up a steady caress across her knuckles.

Once inside, Theon rummages around for the takeaway napkins and sanitizing wipes he keeps in the glove compartment, because he eats in his car and he’s a fucking mess at it. They come in handy on nights like this with Sansa, too.

“Theon?” she prompts once they’ve tidied up, her voice a bit unsure next to him.

He doesn’t know what all that’s for, so he cups her chin and plants another kiss on her already swollen lips. “Yeah, baby?”

She hesitates, but not for long. Sansa’s never been the sort. “Don’t you want me to do that for you, too?”

 _That._ He doesn’t need to ask what she means. But he only chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“But” — one little word and then she pauses, aggravation heavy in that single syllable before she carries on — “I don’t want you to get… bored.”

“You think getting you off could bore me?”

“If that’s all we ever do.”

“Sansa, I —” Theon’s not quite sure what to say, or how to say it without botching the whole thing. He drags a hand through his hair and figures he’ll have to wing it. “Look, I won’t pretend I don’t want it. And maybe if this was five years ago it’d be all I wanted. But I’m not that big an idiot anymore, I — y’know, I know the sort of shit you’ve been through and I don’t wanna be another one of those guys to you.”

“You’re not,” she assures him, and it warms his heart to hear it, even more when she grasps his hand and holds it close, right to her heartbeat.

“Listen, I like what we do,” Theon reiterates. He’s never been great with words and feelings and shit, but he’ll try for Sansa’s sake. “I like talking to you, getting you hot like that. I wanna keep it up. Don’t worry so much, alright?”

“Alright,” Sansa agrees. He hopes that means she’s taken his word for it. “But don’t think this is the last you’ll be hearing about this.”

In the light of the streetlamp he’s parked under, Theon catches the upward quirk of her lips. It makes his pulse quicken.

He pulls her hand up to kiss her palm, and starts the car. The engine rumbles, kicks up the gravel and the summer breeze, and he tells her around a grin, “Lookin’ forward to it, love.”

He’s looking forward to just about everything now, so long as it’s with Sansa.


End file.
